Mudblood
by Saavik13
Summary: They did not ask for this. They did nothing more than be born with gifts they could not begin to fully understand. They did not choose to be our burden. They only ask to live. I see it in her eyes. This understanding. She knows this is her war." SS
1. Breathe HG

It's strange what war will do to you. Twist you, turn you, flip you over and inside out till you can't tell what was from what is or what might be. Till it doesn't even matter anymore. One breath in, one breath out. You don't even move forward, you don't even move. Just one breath in, one breath out.

It hurts to care, so you stop. You don't notice the empty seats anymore. You don't question the tears or the screams. One breath in, one breath out. Repeat.

You don't even hear your own screams now, in the night or the day or whenever your eyes close and what's left of your soul leaks out from its shell. One breath in. You close your eyes and pray for something, you don't even have the will to put words to it anymore – just a silent prayer. If God really is so great he'll catch your meaning even when you don't know what it is anymore. One breath out.

You never breathe out when you pray. You only breathe in. It's silly. You want to take Grace in, never let it out. You can't afford to waste anything anymore. Parchment is too dear for letters now, the Order needs it. No more knitting for the house-elves. You're knitting your own socks these days. You know your fingers ache because they are white and blue with cold. You see them, but you do not feel them. One breath in, one breath out.

War has turned you cold in more than your fingers. You know what you should feel when they cart in another body, another face you recognize. Another hand you once held. Children, all of them. You were once a child, you remember. Picnics and hide n' seek. You remember. You remember you should cry at funerals, you should laugh at weddings, you should smile at births. You cry at births. You cry and scream and tear your hair at weddings. You laugh at funerals. Death is silence and warmth and you do not fear it. You fear life. Life going on, one breath after another. Forcing you, pushing you to feel, to care.

This is your war. The others fight because of ideals or morals or other pointless stupidity. You fight because if you don't you die. You fight because at least if you do die it will not be cowering in a corner. You fight because the only other option is too easy. You fight because this is your war and you were born into it.

They don't understand. Not the Weasleys. This is yours, you own it because it is your blood they die to protect. It is your blood they rally around. It is your life they pay for with theirs. Harry thinks it is all on his shoulders, the fate of the world. Harry did not start the war. Your kind did. Your kind did by taking one single breath.

The irony is, the only one that understands is the one whose mark floats in the night sky to tell you. You will be laughing soon – again.


	2. Wolf SS

I see them everyday. The walking reminder of why I do what I must do. The _muggleborns_. The cause of all this. The reason we die and bleed and the reason I will eventually see this thing to its ultimate conclusion. I no longer really care what end it is, so long as it is an end.

Win or lose, we all pay the price. Neither cause is just or right or perfect. We all want power. We all want to have our say. The irony is we are all fighting the same battle. All but the muggleborns – the mudbloods if you will.

We fight over them. We fight not _for_ them or _against_ them, but over them. We treat them like no more than the last candy of the holidays, ripped to shreds between two greedy children. Those of us with half the blood can see both sides. Both sides are users and both sides pretend they are the righteous chosen. Chosen of what or who I care not to contemplate.

They do not have a place in this world, these children of outsiders. They do not understand the old ways and they do not wish to learn. Their very existence risks bringing the muggles down on us. They will be our undoing.

They did not ask for this. They did nothing more than be born with gifts they could not begin to fully understand. They did not choose to be our burden. They only ask to live. I see it in her eyes. This understanding. She knows this is her war. She knows that of all of us, she has no choice but to fight. She knows her survival will be our death.

A muggle man once called slavery the "wolf by the ears". He said that they could no more old onto it then they could let it go. Do one and you are eaten. Do the other and you are torn asunder.

Mudbloods are our wolf by the ears. We can not include them without loosing who we are. We can exclude them only at the cost of our souls. In either case we lose. We can not win this war, this mudlbood battle. We are few and they are growing. Magic is leaking from the old families out into the world and infecting these muggle mutants. For every magical child born to wizarding parents there are now three muggles born with our gifts, our talents. For every wizarding child with magic there is one without to parents just as magical, just as much a part of this world as the squib child never can be.

It does not matter who wins this war. Eventually we will be gone and they will survive, whether they do so as former slaves or freed wolves is the question we battle over.

Some say it is all for morality, an issue of ethics and ideals and doing away with darkness. I say it is a last chance for survival. The old ways will die. The only issue at hand is whether they live on in the memory of the new order. I can see the way this world is headed. There will not be a wizarding world and a muggle world for much longer – a century or two at best. The muggles grow more and more invasive with each passing moment. The wizarding world more stupid. The births and deaths only heighten the changing. The worlds are merging again and I would rather see us take our place in history with grace rather than with scorn.

I do not wish to be remembered for the Mark I carry. I do not wish our world to be remembered for holding onto the wolf when it was so clearly biting our hands to the bone. I choose instead to be its dinner, for a dinner is more fondly thought of than a set of chains. It may be my grave I dig, but at least I know I will be well buried.


	3. India HG

When I was little there was this old lady that lived next to my parent's dental practice in the ancient brick building that my parent's only bought it because they liked the architecture. I would walk to their building when school let out and check in with the receptionist to let her know I was okay. Then I'd sneak out the window in the waiting room that opened up into this nearly forgotten back garden and knock on Mrs. Brouse's door. The garden use to be for all the tiny apartments in the building but now that half of it was my parent's dental practice Mrs. Brouse had the only working door. She never did a thing with the garden. It was all dirty paving stones and broken bits of whatnot. It was the sitting room and the lady herself that always held my interest.

Mrs. Brouse had been everywhere. She was born in India in 1893 and had traveled through China and the Congo, seen the rainforests of South America and the Russian plains. For a muggle she was very old, nearly a hundred and so very tiny. Her skin was like paper it was so thin and she smelled funny. But the stories she had! Her father was a British officer, of some higher rank I never quite figured out what, serving in India and they'd lived in a grand house with servants. The pictures on the walls were full of ladies in splendid dresses and furs and gentlemen in elaborate uniforms. I was transfixed by the idea of it. This lost world of the British Empire. The grandeur and the sophistication. I mourned the loss as keenly as Mrs. Brouse.

She died when I was 10, before I knew I was a witch. She never quite reached a century, which had been her private goal. She left me everything. Her three children had all died years ago, one in the Great War as an infant, another in hospital during the Blitz. The last one, her only daughter, died of cancer back before it was something people would even talk about and I never did find out exactly what – something female I gathered. Her husband went to his grave three years after. Mrs. Brouse had been alone for more years than she'd had a family - by decades. There were no grandchildren and no siblings, no one. I had been her only companion the last years of her life. My parents had even taken to forgiving her rent in the end when her money had run out and her pride was too much to admit it. They told her she was as good as my grandmother and as far as they were concerned she was a member of the family. My mothers parent's had both died when she was a teenager so I guess she enjoyed Mrs. Brouse as much as I did.

I was the one that found her dead on the sitting room floor, her favorite china tea set already out for my arrival and another of her prized scrapbooks spread out ready for me to exclaim over for the hundredth time. She'd lived and died alone.

It wasn't till years later that I had the heart to go through all those boxes that my father had diligently packed up for me. Each teacup and picture frame carefully wrapped in tissue and cushioned with foam. My father was very meticulous.

The war, our wizarding war that no one would name or give official title too, had been increasing. I couldn't take the risk any longer and I'd forced my parents to leave England. They were going to do what they'd always talked about and open a clinic in some backwater and help the natives of whatever place they landed – somewhere, I knew, that Mrs. Brouse had told us of. I wouldn't let them tell me where. I wouldn't let them write me. They were leaving my life for good and we all knew it. Even should the war end I would not seek them out. Even if I survived till the end I would always be a target and so would they. I wanted them safe and alive more than I wanted them in danger and by my side.

They were gone and I was cleaning out my childhood home with a dozen Order members for guard when I first touched those boxes. I left most of my childhood behind that day, but I took every one of those boxes.

When I got back to Headquarters and Ginny was helping me unshrink things and find places for what little I had room to display I realized the horrifying truth. Mrs. Brouse and her India, the grand British Empire I had dreamed of, fantasized about, had been a lie. It was built on prejudice and the pain of others and my parents and I had swallowed the pleasant cover story and not thought of the reality.

Now I was the reality.

Now I am the little Indian boy in the pictures with the elaborate cloths and holding the tray with the fancy drinks for the white ladies in the dresses that were downright foolish in the Indian summers. I am the woman with the basket on her head weaving through the crowds and hoping the officers don't take notice and harass me. I am living not the dream but the nightmare.

The terrible truth is, I still close my eyes and dream about Mrs. Brouse's mother and the garden parties. I still catch myself wondering what it would have been like to live in that time and place. If you'd listened to her stories you would understand how she wove the illusion so perfectly. Everyone was genteel. Everyone had perfect manners and tea was always served with cream and two sugars.

I still morn for what never was.

I once talked to Dean about the wizarding world. I asked how he could stand the way they treated us without ever getting mad. He'd laughed at me. "You've never had a chance to get use to it, Hermione. I've spent my life being looked down on for one thing or another. It's actually refreshing this. They hate me for my blood here and not my skin. I can walk down a street here and unless I'm in muggle clothes they can't really tell the difference."

I guess I'm lucky. Or maybe not. Maybe Dean was lucky. He didn't let the purebloods get to him. At least not until they killed him.

What I don't understand is why I still see it from both sides. I look at the wizarding world and I see Mrs. Brouse. I see her love of her childhood and how she'd drawn a curtain over all the bad and could remember only the good. I see these purebloods and I think I understand. They do not see the bad either. They are fighting to save their way of life. Like the antebellum south or the Roman Empire, or Mrs. Brouse's British India, it is destined to end. The grandeur of the Purebloods will fall to the side and someday a little girl is going to be sitting with a Malfoy or Flint, or a Lestrange and drink tea and look at their scrap books. One day a little girl is going to dream of their robes and their parties and they will not remember that the person in the background, the one in the plain robes working next to the house-elves was me. They will not remember or even learn that the wealth of the Purebloods came at the expense of the half-bloods, the mudbloods, and the unfortunate muggles that wandered into their path. That little girl will not see the bad. She'll see the fine manners, the grand libraries, the glittering balls, and the silk robes and she'll forget about me.

I can't really blame her. Sometimes, when I see them, I forget about me too.


	4. Boxes SS

She's doing it again. She's opened another of those muggle boxes and is pulling out those funny yellow pictures that never move. I wonder what she sees in them? She's always silent as she does it. She'll be silent for days afterwards if the war allows it. She'll sit and stare at the Black tapestry or the portraits in the hall. Her eyes will follow Draco as he sneers at the Weasley's or brushes imagined lint of that ridiculous robe he refuses to stop wearing, even though the silk is starting to fade and the embroidery is half gone. It's the last of his Pureblood trappings I suppose. Something I never had the opportunity as a child to grow accustomed too so the loss is less of a concern. The Granger girl watches him with the same expression, the same tilted head and misty eyes she sports when she goes through her boxes. They are alike in her mind, her faded pictures and my godson. Does she suppose him faded too?

In a way he is. His world is dying around him. All the things his parents taught him were important are in their death throws. Pureblood etiquette, how I struggled with it in my early years. My brutish muggle father had never bothered to instill anything approaching civility. Lucius took me under his wing, me a half-blood, and taught me the graces of the Purebloods. He taught me the gliding effortless walk. The impeccable manners and grooming – even though my hair refuses to obey. He taught me all that I needed to know to be accepted into their pretty little society.

I was his pet. I see that now. I was his little experiment. Could a worthless half-blood, born and raised in the muggle world, be taught to be a proper Pureblood? Oh, I should have seen it then. I was his Eliza Doolittle. They all tutored and primped and groomed and molded until I was the outer image of one of them. They made me believe in the world as they saw it. They made me believe that one day I could belong in the parlors and the ballrooms and at their dinning tables.

Ironically, now I do belong. The pet is now one of the last hold-outs. Draco and I glide about the Order Headquarters, two of the last members of a soon to be extinct animal – a Pureblood. We're trapped here with the mudbloods, unable to leave without risking death. Blood-traitors and mudbloods all trapped together in this molding mansion. Granger should watch him, watch me, watch the last of us. She's the mind to memorize our ways and record them so that in a hundred years when we are dead and rotted something will live on.

Perhaps that is the purpose of her boxes then. She's collected trappings of other lives like she now intends to collect us.

I wonder if I should leave my things to her should I not survive this endless useless war? I think perhaps it would be pleasant to know, in the afterlife, that I too have boxes so well cared for and hands so gentle and mind that cares to disturb their slumber on occasion.

I think I would like that –to know another mourns for me, for us. It is ironic it should be her. The little mudblood. She fights to kill our ways and yet she catalogues them so carefully.

I think I will add to her collection. Another box, another faded collection of days long since lived. I do not mind the idea of eternity as a box. A box is far better than a grave.


	5. Mother HG

_A/N: Some of you have reviewed and pointed out that this story is rather introspective. I intend to stay with that, but it was supposed to have a bit of a plot - it was just late in showing it's head. It's rather shy and will not be making a direct appearance. This chapter and the next will probably be the least introspective of the lot.  
_

_A note on the Alternate Universe - This story does not take the last book into account. It stops solidly with the 5th book for cannon. Pretend 6th and 7th didn't happen. The AU version of 6th and 7th will be shown when necessary. _

I can't help but feel you can hear me, Professor. They say people that are unconscious can still hear what goes on around them. I'd like to think that you're just unconscious and that the curse didn't do anything worse. We still haven't figured out what it was you were hit with. I hope you can hear me, but sometimes I wish you couldn't. It must be horrible for you, trapped here like this and not able to help us – only able to listen to all of us prater on endlessly. Someday you're going to wake up and then what will we all do? You'll have enough blackmail to last millennia!

I know the others come here too. I see them sneak towards your room. You have no idea how much you really are helping. I don't think we need advice as much as a chance to speak things out loud that we wouldn't normally dare. You don't question us no matter how foolish or bleak we get. You just listen. It's terribly vital that.

I can't tell Harry or Ron what's going on, what I see and feel. They have their own problems and their own part in this war. I can't heap mine on top of them too. When you fell in that raid, I think they lost what little they had left of their innocence. The indestructible leader went down. Now what?

I'd already lost my innocence so I wasn't too shocked by it all. I hope that doesn't bother you. I've always admired you, Professor, but we've never really been friends. You've listened to me and my childish fears of inadequacy. You've explained the Wizarding world to me when I was confused or upset by something. You were one of the few to support SPEW even after you told it me it wouldn't work. But we've never been exactly close. And I never thought you were invincible.

We'd lost Dumbledore after all; it stood to reason any of us could go next. I'm surprised more of the "old guard" hasn't kicked it.

I'm being flippant. I realize that. I don't bloody well care. You've been like this for a year now and I've been trapped in headquarters for the better part of five. The war goes on all around me and I'm less use than you are – too valuable to help in the field and too inexperienced to do anything else.

I became a mother today. I adopted two of the muggle-born orphans that one of the teams managed to rescue from a DeathEater raid. The older girl is named Michelle. She's ten and very much like I was at that age, although having watched your parents being tortured to death seems to have dampened her spirits somewhat. The younger one is four, almost five. Her name's Jude. She's not doing very well at the moment. Kept a hold of my robes through the entire afternoon, diner, and until Snape's Dreamless Sleep potion took effect. I think Michelle's going to be worse off in the long run. She hasn't cried once.

They didn't want to let me adopt them. Prof. Lupin kept saying I was too young. I reminded him I'm older than Lily and James Potter were when they had Harry. Mrs. Weasley said I couldn't handle the pressure of two children at once. Ron yelled at her for me, thank heavens. I'm not sure I would have kept my temper. The others all started in on how they couldn't stay at headquarters – they'd be in the way. I can't leave since I'm on the most wanted list along with Snape and Draco, and we've all got to stay here under Fidellus. I can't tell you how much I hate that Harry and Ron get to go out. I know the Wizarding World needs to see Harry as a symbol and I know that for some reason Voldemort doesn't see Ron as a threat – but really. It's the Golden Trio not Duo! Secondly, I'm still surprised the Weasley's don't rank higher on that hit list and I'd very much like to see a copy for my own piece of mind. Oh what does it matter anyway, and I'm getting off topic.

The only one that thought I wasn't finally off my rocker was Snape. I never thought I'd see the day, Professor. The great bat of the dungeons defended a Gryffindor.


	6. Caged SS

I never thought I'd see the day, Minerva. I defended one of your Gryffindors. It's finally happened. I've had one too many rounds of _Crucio_ and lost my mind - the effect evidently took a good long while to manifest, however.

I suppose you already heard what happened. I saw the bushy haired tyrant leave a few moments ago. She really does have a temper, doesn't she? All she needs is the red hair and I'd have mistaken her for a banshee. She was magnificent. The air was electrified she was so angry yet not even a stray magical spark. Merlin, that girl could make even Lestrange double think crossing her. She has power, that little mudblood. Of course, being a Slytherin you'd say I have a fetish for power. I'll have you know Draco was one drooling, though she hardly noticed in her ire. The three of us have been trapped in this house for far too long if a Malfoy's taking an interest in a mudblood. Of course, he's probably just desperate and considering the only other female his age around here is the Weasley girl that would mean facing down Potter and the entire Weasel Clan. The mudblood is probably the safer option.

I know, Minerva. The WORD again. Really, it's almost a complement these days. Soon it will be and you'll be taking house points for calling someone a Pureblood.

Do you know what time of year it is? Can you tell time like this? It's five years next Saturday. Five years since any of us have ventured further than the front steps. Five _years_ of hiding. I thought Black was a whiner all those long years ago when he'd drink himself into a stupor and plan ways of escape. I think now Belletrix may have done him a favor.

Oh, I know what you'd say. "Life is always preferable, Severus, to any kind of death." I ask you, do you really still think that? Trapped as you are? It's been over a year now that you've suffered this nightmare. Do you still choose life? I suppose you do – after all you are still here. Not only have we failed to discover what has caused this state we have failed to figure out how you survive in it. Personally, I've come to the conclusion you're too stubborn and obstinate to die properly and in a timely fashion.

Things should get interesting now that Granger's added two more to our little encampment. Oh, the others come and go but it's usually just Draco and I, you and Granger. To be honest you're better conversation than either of them. You don't mouth back.

I can't believe the werewolf was so stupid. Telling her she couldn't handle two children. The girl handled Potter and Weasley for years, this should be relativity simple. The children's names evidently are taken from some muggle song or another and when the youngest was hysterically crying Granger started signing to her. The eldest was standing by me watching - stone-faced. She finally whispered that her parent's used to sing her sister to sleep with the same song. Granger has the instincts for this, it's obvious. Besides, she's nothing left to entertain herself with. She's read the entire Black library, including several volumes that made my stomach turn they were so dark. She's knitted blankets and curtains and socks and tea cozies till her fingers bleed. She's nursed nearly every Order member back from the edge of death – twice. She and Draco even started playing acting a couple in front of Mrs. Black's portrait for entertainment. Honestly, that woman needs a new set of insults. "Blood traitor" only goes so far.

There just isn't enough to do here, Minerva. There's a war going on and none of us are being of any use.

Oh, I have my research and both of them help me when there's something I can scrape together for them to do. Ingredients are even harder to come by now than last year. Fred Weasley's supplying most of what I need. He's not as bad at harvesting as I would have suspected but the quality still isn't up to my standards. I've run completely out of spiders legs. I'm dangerously short on supplies for your nutrient potions and I've little to nothing left for major healing draughts. Granger does a daily inventory and keeps a list of necessities pinned up in the kitchen so anyone going out can keep an eye out for anything of use. We usually get a few things that way, but only when there's raids happening so what we get goes right back out again.

We've also got a long list of things to research for the Order. Objects to analyze, curses to dissect, a cure for you to find. Granger tries to keep busy. She's something of a code breaker and she's been able to figure out several encryptions the Dark Lord has employed for Inner Circle messages and a spell to confound the owls and change their delivery destinations. She is still bored most of the time. I can see it in her eyes. She's ready to climb the walls, which I can sympathize with entirely – most unfortunately.

Draco's not doing well at all. He never was much of a reader so the library holds little interest. He's always had servants and elves for company and here he only has a former enemy and a bitter old man. He's not much help with Order research and while he's a good set of extra hands at potions there isn't enough ingredients to waste in pointless brewing and he's hopeless when it comes to theoretical research. He's a young man anyway. Young men shouldn't be relegated to drudgery and book work 24 hours a day. I may have been a hardened Death Eater by his age, but I still went out now again and Lucius and I did have reputation for painting the town red – sometimes literally. I don't think Olivander will ever forgive me for that time we got his front window with that blood spell.

I'm reminiscing about Death Eater pranks. Gods, Minerva I need out of here!

The worst part is, I'm actually looking forward to having two new faces in Headquarters. They are children and younger than I'm use to terrorizing, but it might do us all a world of good. We'll have someone to worry about. All the dark artifacts we've been studying for the Order will have to be locked away. I'll have to ward the potion's lab. Granger will need to adjust what's visible on the library shelves. Why we'll have a good weeks worth of activity just in child proofing alone to keep us busy in this cage.

Caged. That's what we all are isn't it? You're caged in your own body and the rest of are caged in these walls. Useless and bored out of our minds.

Well, they've added two new monkeys to the exhibit. I can't believe I'm actually glad to have children around. Hell, to be honest, I'd be glad to have a rampaging hormonal dragon loose in my lab if it broke the monotony.


	7. Pain HG

I never thought it would be so hard. Back when I petrified Neville and we ran head long into our first adventure I never guessed it would last this long or cost me so much. I can't think straight these days. I can't bear too. I look right and there's a picture of Sirius and it hurts. I look left and there's one of my mother's scarves I took because I liked the color …and it hurts. I look up and I see cobwebs and remember that we lost someone yesterday because there weren't any spider legs for the potion we needed …and it hurts. I look down and I see my toes through my shoes and know that I'm not likely to get a new pair because others need the supplies more and the war is taking everything we have …and it _hurts_.

I've survived two Unforgivables – fought one off and kept my sanity through seven rounds of the other, all back when I was still of use, when I was on the front lines. I still shake when it gets cold. Snape says my nerves may never fully heal. If I get too tired or cold or use to much magic in too small a time I can trigger a flashback and it feels like I'm under the curse again and it can last minutes. I wake up and Draco or Snape will be sitting next to me on the floor trying to hold my head so I don't knock it bloody against the tile or the wood or the carpets. They look at me with pity and don't even complain that I soiled their robes when I lost control sometime at the start of it. They hold me and clean me with magic and wrap me in blankets and bottles of hot water and wait it out with me – often through another episode or two before I finally slip into unconsciousness.

I prefer that pain.

At least the Cruciatus Curse is grounded, it was done on purpose. When I see Molly Weasley hunched over the table sobbing because it's finally happened and one of her children isn't going to come home, no more jokes about his ear-ring or subtle attempts to see his leather clad rear end through his robes, it hurts so much more. And she doesn't do it on purpose. She doesn't mean for her pain to become mine. She knows I share some, that I grieve with her. She doesn't know that I blame myself. I blame myself for every death. It's my war after all. My war, my fault.

I've got these two girls to look after now. I talked Kingsley into getting them wands six months ago and Snape, Draco, and I have taken to teaching them spells. I know they are young but the time may come when they will have to fight. We could be found here in our sheltered headquarters and they may have to fight or die. They may still die.

Michelle still doesn't cry and it's been a year since they came here. She didn't cry when the Order found the family dog and returned it to the girls safe and sound. Not even when Jude fell down the stairs after tripping over Mundegus passed out on the landing and needed two bones spelled back into place. Not when Draco was teaching her to duel and broke her nose on accident. She doesn't cry and she doesn't ask questions. She learns and she plans and she _hates_.

Jude doesn't understand and thinks it's all a game. She plays with their dog, named Wizard ironically, and learns her spells with all the attention span of her age. She's actually got a fair bit of talent but she's so young it's rather pointless. I doubt she could manage a tickling charm if she had too. She'd freeze.

Michelle would likely take a few down with her. Draco's her constant companion these days. I'm not sure if he's treating her like a daughter or a younger sister or something I don't even want to think about. Wizards don't seem to have the same issues with "age of consent" that muggles do. I should make sure they aren't getting up to anything. I really should. The only time Michelle smiles is when Draco's there. The only time he smiles is with her. She may be a child but she's lost her childhood to this war already. I'll not take whatever happiness she finds away.

I'm supposed to be their mother, I adopted them anyway. Jude and I have that kind of a bond I think. I tuck her in at night and read her bedtime stories. I tickle her awake in the morning and make her cupcakes when there's enough sugar. I save the best food off my plate and give it to her when we run low. She comes to me when she cries.

Michelle isn't like Jude. She doesn't want funny stories or for me to make her stuffed animals dance. She wants me to make the pain go away.

I can't make hers stop when I can't stop my own, though Lord knows I've tried.

Michelle saves the best food on her plate too and gives it to Jude. We both scratch out enough for Wizard because we can't bear to make Jude give him up. We both bandage and stitch up the Order members and block the blood from Jude's teary eyes. We both have stiff backs and hard eyes in the face of death. We're mirrors of each, only I think Michelle is already too far in shadow.

Gods, Professor, I don't know what to do.


	8. Purpose SS

Gods, Minerva, I don't know what to do.

Hermione's getting worse. You remember those episodes she has, ever since that last mission she was on, the one where Flint captured her? You know the one. It's where I lost my cover and Draco finally joined our side. They are getting worse.

They must have been progressing for years but no one noticed. She tries to hide them but with Jude always by her side and Michelle always ghosting after them she's never alone now. Draco and I spend most of our time with her now a days as well. It's like some perverted family with Hermione at the head and that damn dog beside her. Who names a dog Wizard anyway? Stupid muggles. We're all on a first name basis now as well. Lupin says it took us all long enough. We've been living together for years. I hexed him.

I can't stop her pain, Minerva. Even Dreamless Sleep doesn't stop her from screaming in the middle of the night. I can't figure out what's causing it. She's sensitive to cold and to magical drain, we've always known that. Something's changed and I can't find it. I need to find it.

Her eyes are dying. She holds onto Jude like a lifeline. There are times I don't think she sees the rest of us. Her soul is leaching out of her little by little and with it her will to fight.

I don't know what to do if Hermione Granger stops fighting.

Bill Weasley is dead. It's a wonder the family's made it this far without any losses. Why did it have to be Bill? I rather liked Bill. Ronald on the other hand, that wouldn't be much of a loss. Percy, I wouldn't mind offing him myself.

You should wake up now and hit me.

Potter's about ready to march into the middle of Diagon Alley and challenge the Dark Lord to a duel. He's thinking about it at least. The entire Wizarding World is paralyzed, Minerva. Hogwarts has been closed for 6 ½ years now. The Wizengamot hasn't meet in 5. There's marshal law imposed but it's pointless. There aren't any aurors left to enforce it. No one goes out. The only thing open in Diagon Alley is Gringotts, out of stubbornness alone I suppose, they have no patrons.

It can't go on much longer. There's no food anywhere. Families are stealing from muggle homes to survive since we have no stores anymore and they have no muggle money. Children are joining the Death Eaters because they are tired of going hungry and cold at home. The only people on the streets are those with Dark Marks or those in the Order, the only ones with food or clothing or heat. The Order can't help everyone. We're barely keeping our own people alive.

All the muggleborns are in hiding. We've got safe houses throughout the country. Most of the halfbloods too are underground now. They are proving useful. We can send the muggleborns and a few of the muggle-raised halfbloods into the muggle towns for food and they can steal it more easily than the wizarding born. It gives us a small advantage.

We're all thieves now. We're all beggars. You'd think the Dark Lord is winning, but that's the irony. He's not. The only ones joining his ranks are the hungry children – children with little to no education now that Hogwarts is closed. They drain his resources and add nothing to his cause. The older members keep the terror level high, keep everyone cowering in their homes afraid to say a word, reeking havoc in the streets. But they sneak to us, Minerva. They sneak news and what little they can spare to the Order. They are turning to us over _him_. We are winning their hearts and minds, even the purest of Purebloods are slowly turning our way. They too are tired of this war. Even a few from the Inner Circle have come to us.

It's become an exercise in patience. The winner will be the one who can wait the longest. Will the Dark Lord grow tired of the games first or will Potter loose out to his stupidity and try to end it – to save a few lives? The longer we hold out the more will come to our side when the final call is made. The longer the Dark Lord waits, the more his ranks swell with the uneducated. It will be a blood bath when he sends the children out as fodder. And we will have to cut them down to get to the master. Potter's accepted it. Others have yet to do so.

Potter is all we have left. Dumbledore is dead. You are as good as dead. Potter is our symbol – our rallying call. He goes out daily and walks the streets with the Death Eaters. They don't attack, they know there are too many Order members watching. They know that without their Lord by their side they cannot defeat him. Potter walks the streets of our villages and our cities and lets the people in hiding see him. He walks tall and unafraid though hell.

His power is growing, you can nearly see it glowing in the dim lights of Grimmauld. As more and more join our side it seems to add to his magic, as if the will of the people gives him strength. Given time Potter will be as Dumbledore was, feared above even the Dark Lord. His eyes flash the killing curse at times, his anger just hidden. Potter is the Order now, the light. He has taken up the mantle and he marches on. We give him our power and he makes it his own. To be honest, I think he is already more powerful than the Dark Lord. I hope to the gods we never have to face Potter should the power go to his head.

Hermione misses the boy he was. She doesn't have to say it. I even miss the spoiled brat who use to curse at me and fight my every instruction. Potter leads us now with as firm a hand and as cool a logic as Dumbledore, but without the lemon drops. We've stripped all the joviality and candy away and found a cold emotionless warrior.

What will we do when this is over? We loose we die. We win…?

I suppose I can go back to Hogwarts and teach once more. I didn't realize I missed it until we started working with Michelle and Jude. I know Michelle studies so she can learn to kill. I know Jude doesn't care one snit about any of it. But I have a purpose at least in this. I have a purpose.

Hermione has a purpose with Jude and Draco is finding one with Michelle. She's barely 13 now, Minerva. Not a big age gap for our world, but I've told Draco off more than once for robbing the cradle. Oh, I made sure they aren't actually doing anything – quite sure. Doesn't matter, it won't alter the reality. Hermione knows it too. Draco Malfoy is the last Pureblood of the Malfoy line. Michelle is already as good as his wife. We only need the Ministry paperwork and a small potion to give Draco back certain abilities and it'll be settled.

Draco doesn't seem to mind that he's ending an era. He's seen too much to care apparently. Hermione just sighs and takes more notes. She asked Draco and I to write down what we can about Pureblood life before the war. The good things and the bad. She says she wants a record for posterity. Something about tea parties and scrapbooks and making sure Jude doesn't have any false allusions.

I never thought I'd see a mudblood morn for my kind. I don't think she'll miss our ways, not in the slightest. She's no more a mind for servitude than she has for Divination. I think, rather, she recognizes the uniqueness that will be lost, is already lost. Draco doesn't' appreciate it – never did. It takes someone from outside to see it. I saw it, being a halfblood. She sees it as a mudblood. Of course blood has nothing to do with it; it's really about perspective. I think that's how she comes to terms with it.

It's the death of the wizarding world as a separate entity we morn – not the death of the Purebloods. When this war ends and we win, Merlin willing, everything will change. Too many of us have hidden in the muggle world. Too many have learned to navigate their streets. Our fashions are now their fashions. Our food their food. I see muggle pens replacing quills, notebooks instead of scrolls, zippers and Velcro on our robes. There aren't that many that follow the old ways, the old religions. It's been centuries since Hogwarts had a Solstice Celebration, but we both know we always have a Christmas Feast. We still use the old expressions, talk about Merlin and gods and Avalon. But they are like they are in muggle legends, not as they should be to us. They are no longer alive for us as they once were.

Hermione cried when she read what I'd written for her. I wrote about the first time I saw Hogwarts and what it was like – so much magic. I wrote about the holidays I spent at Malfoy Manner and how odd it was to have a Yule Tree and to sing songs in a language no one speaks. I wrote about the trip I took with Lucius and his grandfather to this tiny little harvest festival in New Zealand and how Malfoy, Sr. had talked about how it once was huge and how it had changed – how it no longer held any magic. I wrote about the first set of robes I ever wore. The first time I saw a houself. The first spell I cast. The feel of my first wand. The smell of pumpkin juice. The sting of a curse and the honey in Lucius' venom.

I don't think she knew I was a halfblood. She cried so hard the pages smudged and she looked up at me and asked, "You too?" She told me about reading Hogwarts: A History. Of the train ride and her fears she wouldn't fit in. She talked about the ceiling in the Great Hall and her first glimpse of Diagon Alley. She laughed at the memory of seeing our robes for the first time and how everyone looked just a little dirty. She talked about how everything danced and sang with magic and how at first she thought we could do anything.

Sweet Merlin, she understands, Minerva. She understands why I tagged along with Lucius. Why I'd give up Lily for the fiction that was. She sees magic, Minerva. She sees it. She says Potter does to, that all muggleborns and muggle-raised feel like we do. They see the magic in everyday things – like I did. They see it and it calls to them and they don't want to go either.

I read Draco's writing. It's all about bloodlines and responsibilities and money. He talks about having to have the right cloths and read the right things. He talked about how he'd always secretly wanted a muggle this or that. Not a word about magic. Not a word written in awe of this world of impossibilities manifested.

Draco is typical of his ilk. He lusts after the non-wizarding, captivated by the differences. Irony this. I thought it was the mudbloods' fault our world was ending. It's not. It's the Purebloods that are polluting the magic because they no longer see it as magical.

It's dead then, Minerva. The Wizarding World is dead.


	9. Memory HG

I'm beginning to forget. It's been so long since I've been outdoors I'm not sure I remember what wind feels like. I can feel the sun though the windows, but we dare not open them in case. In case of what Remus and Severus won't say but their eyes go dark and I know enough not to press. Whatever darkness they fear I would do well to avoid and be happier in ignorance of.

I can't remember grass. I use to love the smell of fresh cut grass, how it stuck to the bottom of your feet and got everywhere. I can't remember rain, the taste or the smell of clean. I can't remember much these days.

I know. I know abstractly what I use to feel and see. The pictures are still there but it's almost like I'm in someone else's pensive. They are dull and lifeless and drained of color.

The last time I saw sky was over Flint's shoulder as he tortured me. There were a billion stars out that night and they twinkled like candles in the darkness. I remember I tried to reach for them between the curses. I remember they turned red when the blood vessels in my eyes burst. Severus still marvels that I have my sight, or my voice.

The last time I felt grass I was laying at Flint's feet and clutching handfuls of it, ripping it from the ground in my agony. I remember how my fingers dug into the soil; how I broke my left index nail off quite short against a little pebble in the ground. It hurt and it amazed me that I could feel such a small pain through the many larger ones.

The last time I felt rain I was helping carry you into Headquarters. You were limp and lifeless and I haven't seen your eyes since I closed them when we laid you on this bed. That was 8 years ago, Professor.

It ends tomorrow. Tomorrow I see grass and feel wind and see the stars. Tomorrow we go to face to face with the Death Eaters. Tomorrow this ends.

I can't say I'm frightened. I'm too numb. I can say that it's taken far too long to reach this point. I've sent Michelle and Jude away, portkeyed them to a safehouse in Essex. It's not that far away, if we loose they are still in danger. But it's better than here. Michelle didn't want to leave Draco. He distracted her and I stunned her. The last I saw them, Jude was clutching her sister and her wand, Wizard snuggled between their bodies as they whirled out of sight. I tried to make Draco go with them. One person isn't likely to make a difference. Michelle could have stayed and fought, she wouldn't be the youngest holding a wand on our side, but I wanted her safe. Draco needed her safe. But he also needs to fight. This is now his war too, his war because if we loose the battle we loose the war and Draco looses the only thing he's got left.

I've accepted that Draco will technically be my son when this is over. The marriage papers are all signed they just need delivered to the Ministry when they open back up along with my adoption papers for the girls. Severus even removed whatever curse or potion he had on Draco last month. She didn't say anything, but I think my 15 year-old is pregnant – Mrs. Brouse would have called her a war bride.

I think Draco's comforted by the fact that he won't be the last Malfoy even if things do not go as planned. It was another reason I couldn't let her fight. I know my father had wanted a boy to continue the Granger line when they had me. I can't really blame Draco for having the same sentiments and wanting an heir. She'll stay unconscious from my stunner for at least 48 hours. By then this will be over. I can't help but want a granddaughter though – a little girl to grow up with none of this over her head.

The Wizarding World can't hold out much longer. Too many are dying of hunger. Too many have already died. You would think you'd need walls to be held under siege, but Voldemort's a crafty one, I'll give him that. He's managed to hold an entire world without them.

The Dark Lord picked the day for the battle, we picked the place. It was actually a civil negotiation and none of the messengers were cursed, not even once. It reminded me of some kind of quant duel, only it's a battle of armies and there's more than wounded honor at stake.

Quite a few people thought we should end it on the field outside Hogwarts. I think I may have been a little over adamant in the stupidity of that idea at the Order meeting. I do not want my daughter and someday granddaughter going to school with so much blood fresh on the ground.

Everyone was there, Minerva. All of the confirmed Order members of any standing. We haven't had a meeting like that since before Dumbledore died. We had to expand Headquarters with more spells than I knew existed to get them all to fit. Living here you'd think I could name them. I couldn't. Some were so young, Minerva – you don't mind if I use your name do you? I'm calling everyone by there name these days. Anyway, they were very young.

Maybe it's only that I've gotten old.

I was sixteen when I started on the front lines. I was 20 when I was relegated to research duties here. I'm not even 30 now and I'm old. I hurt when I get up and it takes a good minute to straighten my back. My knees ach and I swear I creak louder than the stairs. My hair hurts when it rains. I never knew hair could hurt.

I want to be on the battle field. I wouldn't last a minute. I can't move fast enough now. Severus came to me last night to ask me to stay behind – to guard Headquarters and you. I told him no. He wanted to argue, I could tell. I told him I wouldn't get into the thick of it, but I have to be there. I'm not a bad healer when there's a need. So tomorrow I take my place with the handful of mediwizards we have and those like me that have a talent for it.

Severus doesn't want me to go at all. He wants to pack me away and keep me safe. I understand. I'd like to do the same for him. Only neither of us have the option. This is our war after all, the mudblood war. The half-blood war. The end of the Wizarding World.

We had a long talk, he and I. I told him about India and he told me about this world of yours. I suppose it's my world too, only I'm not really invited. He said the irony is that it's only the mudbloods that can appreciate what we've lost. We're the only ones that still dream the dream. I should have hit him for using that word. Instead I kissed him.

Maybe it was pre-battle nerves, but we ended up in bed together. Shocked? I suppose nothing shocks you anymore, Minerva. You've been listening to us for years. I rather think you saw it coming.

He didn't laugh at my scars.

Ron laughed at my scars when he caught sight of them last year when he walked in on me changing out of a bloody robe after helping with the latest raid victims. I was to magically drained to spell the door locked without risking an episode and cad that Ron is he didn't bother to knock. He barged in and laughed. He pointed and laughed and asked why I didn't have them healed. He's an idiot. You can't heal curse scars. You think being the best friend to the Boy Who Lived he'd know that. I told him the truth and he looked ill. He looked ill and he hasn't met my eye since. He's got his own scars somewhere, he has to. He's been on the front line too long not to. Why should he mind if I have mine?

Severus didn't seem to mind. Of course, he has his own problems, his own scars to hide. The Dark Mark is still dark and angry on his arm. Harry figured out years ago how to stop Voldemort from torturing him through it, something to do with Parseltounge, but it's still there, raised and obliviously painful – in more ways than one I fear. Even in my bed he tried to hide it.

If we live though this I don't know what will happen. I have no where to go. I never completed my education. I have no real "job skills" since crisis management and war research aren't likely to be high demand. I promise you one thing, Minerva. I'll make sure the Order still takes care of you. I'll personally see to it. You deserve that and more.

When I woke up this morning Severus was watching me sleep. He was actually smiling. I like his smile. Did you ever see it? It's a rare thing, his real smile. It made his eyes dance and little lines at the corner of his eyes crinkle. We stayed in bed just enjoying having another human that close until it was time to send Michelle and Jude away.

I think I might like to find out more about his smile, if I can. If we survive this. I might like to remember. Maybe we could do it together, he and I. Maybe, maybe he can help me remember.


	10. Need SS

It's over. Done. The Dark Lord is dead.

I was right you know. Somehow Potter is able to gather the Order's energy and harness it. He caught the Dark Lord in the _prior incantatum_ and then...well, the ashes of our former Dark Lord are still floating to earth as we speak.

As for that tainted nearly immortal bastardized soul of his, we took care of it too. I always thought there was more to the Weasley girl than met the eye. She's a necromancer, Minerva. Of course, you probably knew that. It didn't seem to surprise Lupin any. The girl opened the gates and shoved his sprit so far into hell he's likely to have hit the other side. At least it sounded like hell. All the rest of us could see was a grey wreathing mist but the sound was...unmistakable. Ginerva's still shaking from having seen whatever it a necromancer sees that the rest of us don't. I think I'd rather not know.

The official story is that the Dark Lord opened the gate in an attempt to raise his fallen followers to aid him in restoring his body. Only Potter, Lupin, a handful of Weasleys, and Hermione and I saw what really happened. We can't let the truth out or war hero or not people will demand Ginerva's head for her "crimes". Personally, I plan on buying her a drink as soon as there's a wizarding pub open to do so in.

The Order offered Potter the seat as Minister of Magic. Thank Merlin he refused. He wants to just go away for a while. He asked if next year, or whenever we can do it, when Hogwarts opens again as a proper school if I thought he might be able to teach. He wants to teach your subject, Minerva, if you don't wake up by then. He says he can't go into the Ministry. He says he needs to be somewhere away from power – for all our sakes. Somewhere along the line Hermione must have imparted a little common since to the boy.

Hermione. The girl will be the death of me, Minerva. She stayed with the healers for about a minute and half before rushing in after Potter and Weasley. She was in the thick of it the entire time. In the end it was Hermione, Ronald and Ginerva Weasley, and I feeding Potter every ounce of energy we could, all fighting back to back. Hermione is easily the most powerful witch alive, Minerva. Even hampered as she is by this, this _disability_ she has developed, she is magnificent. She held it together until the end. I caught her as she fell. I...I don't know what's going to happen to her, Minerva. There was so much blood. I...I think she may have had a stroke of some kind. There was blood coming from her eyes and her ears and her nose...I don't have any potions left to give her.

We're moving you to Hogwarts in the morning. No one knows if the castle still recognizes you as Headmistress or if it's moved on to someone else. As far as I know, you, Lupin, Hagrid, Filtch, and I are the only staff members still alive. I highly doubt Filch or Hagrid would have been chosen. Lupin will make a good Headmaster I suppose, if it comes to that. We don't know, so we're taking you in case the wards won't open for the rest of us. I remember how heartbroken you looked when we sealed the castle so long ago now it's... well, I promised you that day we would return and so we shall.

St. Mungos is in ruins. Hogwarts will have to act as hospital for now. It's the only wizarding structure still standing in Britain that is anywhere near large enough. The rest of our population is slowly beginning to peak their heads out and many of them are sick or injured. With so many Death Eaters reeking havoc indiscriminately over the last few years there was no where to go for help so there are hundreds of witches and wizards that have been suffering horrifying curses without much aid. It may take a decade to fully realize the implications of this war. I do know there are a mere handful of children left. Whenever we do open Hogwarts it's likely to be almost exclusively muggleborns in attendance. There just aren't enough of our children still with us. Everyone was too ill or too dead to have any these last few years.

Draco's not likely to make it through the night. I don't know who hit him with the curse but they nearly disemboweled him. Hermione got to the boy first and without her spellwork he'd have been dead hours ago. I made Lupin fetch Michelle and Jude. Jude's sitting with Hermione while I talk with you and Michelle hasn't left Draco's side once since she returned. It took me a several minutes to reverse Hermione's stunner on her. She was still unconscious when Lupin brought the girls back.

I don't know what to do, Minerva. It's over, but I'm not happy. You are still like this, Draco, my godson, is dying. I don't know if Hermione will ever wake up or if she does what... I need you, Minerva. Please wake up. We all need you.

I'm a grown man. I shouldn't be begging for my mother, but that's what I'm doing. My real mother was never able to hold me when I cried or stand with me when I needed it. You have. So, I'm begging. Please wake up. I will never forget that night after Dumbledore let Sirius Black go after his prank. You screamed at that old man. You screamed and you came into the infirmary and you sat down next to me, the Slytherin. You sat down and you held me. I kicked and scratched and screamed like a wild thing trying to get you to leave me alone but you held on. You held me until I stopped fighting and broke down in terrified tears. You've looked after me ever since. It didn't matter to you I was Slytherin. It didn't matter when I took the Mark. It didn't matter because you cared for me unconditionally. I need that right now, Minerva. I haven't needed that in so very long.

I've only cried three times since that night. Once, when Lily died. Once, when we found you like this. And today. Today I can't seem to stop them.

I need her, Minerva. I've seen her face every day for the last decade. I _need _her. There's a world out there that I'm going to have to help rebuild and I can't do it. I don't want to do it unless she's there to see it. I want to see her eyes light up when we talk about repairing the ceiling in the Great Hall. I want her to help make sure the next 100 generations see the magic there as we did. I want her to wake up and help fix Draco. I want her to be there for Michelle. I want her to see Jude start in at Hogwarts next year when we open the doors as a school once more. I need her to see those things, Minerva.

I don't know what to do. I love her. I know she's only intrigued by me, but I'll settle for what I can get. I love her. I don't know why or how or any of the details, but I...I can't have both of you like this. I can't do it. I don't have the strength anymore.

Please wake up. I've never begged another human being for anything in my life, but I'm begging you now. Please wake up. Minerva? I don't know what to do! Your hand is so cold in mine and you're wasting away no matter what I do. I'm loosing Hermione and Draco and I can't...I can't be alone again. Even Albus is gone and I...please wake up!

Merlin, god, whoever...I'll even work with Satan if he's listening. Please someone, let her wake up.

God, please let them both wake up.


	11. Hope

**_The Daily Prophet_**

_This issue of the Daily Prophet is dedicated to the memory of those witches and wizards whose fates we still do not know. _

_It is time to come home. _

On this, the fifth anniversary of the Battle of Wrekin, marking the end to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the fall of the DeathEaters, we have sad news to impart and a message to give.

Minerva McGonagall, former Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the successor to Albus Dumbledore as leader of the Order of the Phoenix has died. Prof. McGonagall was never blessed with children but the Order has always taken care of its own. Incapacitated nearly a decade before the final battle, McGonagall spent the final years of the war bed ridden and unable to communicate, left in the hands of the three sole residents of Order Headquarters – Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy.

Two of those three were with her this morning as she slipped away.

Since the Battle of Wrekin the once fierce professor has again lived in her old rooms at Hogwarts, the rooms where she lived as Head of Gryffindor House and Deputy Headmistress, still in the care of her two one time students – both now her colleagues.

Anyone familiar with the re-built Hogwarts could tell you the sad tale. After the final battle what little was left of the Hogwarts faculty converged outside the gates – a rag tag group of wizards all aged beyond their years. The Order needed the school to care for the hundreds of us left without shelter or food, a place to lick our collective wounds and to find some semblance of peace , so they came despite their fatigue and uncaring of the rain. They brought with them their unconscious leader in the hopes that the castle would recognize her and open its gates. Open its gates and let the entire Wizarding World inside if the need be. It did not. The gates remained closed and the rain continued to fall.

In that moment, standing before the locked and warded iron gates of Hogwarts, it was silent but all of us there that day can testify to witnessing the same shocking sight, a sight that will forever haunt us. More powerful than the sounds of hell that carried You-Know-Who's soul to the afterlife, more frightening than the battle we had just fought. We watched Severus Snape cry. Through the rain and the our own despair, we saw Severus Snape cry – we watched him loose hope.

I was there. I saw this heart rending event. I knew Professor Snape, had sat through his classes before the war, had been on the receiving end of his sarcasm and his ire. I had even fought with him in the final battle. I never thought it would be possible to see such a hardened wizard cry. But when the gates did not recognize the Headmistress, Prof. Snape and the rest of the Order could no longer deny what they had to have already known. Headmistress McGonagall was gone and only her shell remained.

Remus Lupin was the first to touch the gates to see if the position of Headmaster had passed to him. They failed to open. What little was left of the staff tried, one by one, a sad and battered line of heroes. Flitwick had lived, despite all odds, by hiding in Glasgow. He tried and failed. The half-giant Hagrid, who had been like a son to the late Albus Dumbledore, tried and failed. In the end the last hand to reach for the gate, the pale and shaking hand that had helped to close it so many years before, reached out and the gates swung open with a long low screech of metal. The now Headmaster Severus Snape was the first to walk through those gates in nearly a decade and he did so carrying his long time friend and mentor. As he gathered her limp form into his arms, he gathered the hope of the Order of the Phoenix, of the Wizarding World. Severus Snape gathered our hope like Harry Potter gathered our powers the day before, he gathered our hope and our Headmistress and he stepped into our future.

Severus Snape would never allow anyone to call him Headmaster. He reserved the title for Prof. McGonagall even after the castle's magic had confirmed she no longer could claim it. For the last five years Hogwarts has had to make due without. No one has graced the Head's Seat at dinner. No one sits at the desk at the top of the stairs. Severus Snape has run Hogwarts from his dungeon office still hoping that someday the Headmistress will return.

Prof. Snape now knows something about hope and the possibility of reward, something that he couldn't have known that rainy day at the gates. His godson was thought to be fatally injured after the final battle and as Snape reached for the cold iron that marked his destiny his godson was slowly bleeding to death at the Order Headquarters. Yet Draco Malfoy lived. He is scared and often dangerously ill, but he lived and still lives. Snape was there to see his godson married to his long time love, the young Michelle Granger that he helped to train in the Order Headquarters. Snape was there to hold his godson's first born , Katherine, a little girl named for the muggle mother Michelle had lost all those years before. And Snape was there when their son, named Severus to honor him, was born late last July. That day five years ago, Snape had only a faint hope for any of these things. Today he has the reality.

Prof. Snape knows something of hope for so many reasons. His godson was not the only person close to Snape to fall in the battle. Hermione Granger was with Harry Potter and Severus Snape in those last triumphant minutes. She had survived years in the Order, on the front line, in hiding, doing the research necessary to win the war. She had suffered quietly for years, the victim of a Death Eater's curse that lingered in her system. It was her choice to be on the field that day. A choice Snape had tried to talk her out of. They both knew what would happen if she fought. The curse she bore would not allow her to do so without consequence.

Severus Snape caught her as she fell, wreathing and screaming from the _Cruciatus_ that had been cast on her years before – feeling it as if it was happening for the first time. The curse had twisted her magic and when she fought that day she knew it would happen. She knew she would likely die. The more magic she used, the more sever the aftershock of the _Cruciatus_ would be. Hermione Granger used her magic. She poured every ounce of it she could into the battle until there wasn't anything left to give and she fell. She held out till the end, but then she fell.

I watched Snape carry her off the battle field. I watched him frantic as the blood poured out of her ears and her eyes and as her body shook. It took nearly an hour for the convulsions to stop. Another hour till her body stopped its trembling.

No one thought she would survive it. No one dreamed that if she did she would still have her mind.

Like his godson she lived. Like his godson there was a price to pay. But Severus Snape's hope was not wasted; her mind at least was intact.

Today the two are married and for her sake he leaves the dungeons for the warmth of the Headmaster's rooms, the only concession he would give to McGonagall's condition and his placement as Headmaster. The rooms are warmer than his old ones in the dungeons and the warmth helps his wife and keeps the still present aftershocks at bay, for the most part at least. If not for Hermione it is doubtful he would have moved into them, but for her he did. For her he still hopes.

They have no children. The curse has left his young wife far too frail. They do have the two muggleborns, Jude and Michelle, the children Hermione defied the Order to adopt one dreary evening at the height of the war. Rumors have it the younger Jude has been heard to call Snape father and while Michelle married before her adoptive mother, her younger sister did take the Snape name. Still, one wonders if in a world where so many have died for the sake of a bloodline, does he miss not having his own?

If your children go to Hogwarts they could tell more then I about the now Prof. Snape that Hermione Granger has become. She teaches History now, replacing the ghost of Prof. Binns that had held the position since time unmemorable. Some say she is barely more than a ghost herself. On her good days she walks to her classroom and can smile and banter with her students. On her bad days she has to be carried to her desk at the front of the room, her hands twisted and useless claws that lay tightly against her chest as her muscles refuse to relax, still feeling that long ago curse. Her voice is a whisper her students strain to hear. She goes each day, good or bad, and each day they learn from her so that the past will never be repeated. She calls herself a living lesson, a lesson they cannot afford to miss. She says it was her war, and Michelle's war, and Jude's war, and all the muggleborns that have been and will be and they had best never forget that fact. They had best never forget the magic of this world they now have a place in.

Snape has found ways to help his wife. Potions that block the pain from her mind if not from her body and eventually calm her spasms. Spells to help her move about the castle when the potions have not yet done their work. Warming charms that follow her, eager that the others will not be needed. And he hopes. He hopes to one day find the cure.

Today, Headmaster Severus Snape can no longer hope for his friend. Minerva McGonagall died before the war reached its peak. Today, it is Prof. Snape's hope for her that we lay to rest.

As one of your former students, let me say this to you Headmaster Snape. You taught me potions and you taught me Defense. You taught me to duel and you taught me to think. At the height of the war you taught me to survive. Now, now sir you have taught me to hope.

It has been five years since the final battle. Five years since you gathered our hopes and forged the way for us. Five years of reconstruction and rebuilding and remembering. We have so much work behind us but so much more lies ahead. The Wizarding World will never be the same. We no longer have our shops, passed through the same family lines since before the Christian calendar. We no longer have the Hogwarts Express or pick up Quidditch games in Hogsmeade. Most of us have left the Wizarding towns for the muggle cities and the only robes we own are for the bath. As we continue to rebuild our world we can only pray that we can keep half as much hope alive as our Headmaster. Hope that we are doing the right thing.

So, to close this article I have a simple message for Headmaster Snape. Please, sir, keep hoping. Please keep hoping for your wife, for your godson, for your fellow Order members that still fight to learn to live despite their injuries. Please keep hoping for the people we still have not found, hoping they are alive and still in hiding or that at least, someday, we can lay them to rest properly. Hope that this new Wizarding World we are building will not crumble like the last one. Hope that with all the changes we are facing we do not forget who and what we are. To you we send our hope, Headmaster. To you we send our children and our future. Please, sir, in their name keep hoping – for all of us.

_By: Orla Quirke, staff reporter._

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A/N: I want to thank everyone that reviewed this story. It started out as a quick one chapter drabble and spiraled. Thank you for all your support and kind words. They mean so very much to me. I hope you enjoyed this work and while I'm sad to see it end I hope that your encouragement will give me the motivation to finish the other stories that have been lying around the website molding. Thank you again and see you soon!

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